


Pain

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Dubious Ethics, F/M, Fallout Kink Meme, Kink Meme, M/M, Multi, Object Insertion, Restraints, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:06:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1196154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boone, Cass, and Vulpes find themselves in a very strange love triangle. It will only end in pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shame, Guilt, and Pain

The rank odor of stale cigarette smoke mixes with the harsh whiskey scent spilled on his shirt, but is not enough to cut through the haze of memory.

Carla. Beautiful, smelling of sunlight and flowers with that expensive perfume she always liked ordering from Vegas, even when they were living in Novac and had nowhere to go, to doll up…

A woman in an impossibly short dress and with her eyes glittering like jewels gives him a wink from down the bar, but Boone feigns not to notice. Easy enough, behind his dark glasses. No woman could ever replace Carla, or his need to punish himself.

It would have been so easy to just go back. To let her have her pretty life and her pretty friends and even if it was no place to raise a child, at least the damn Legion would never have breached the walls…

He eyes the liquid in his glass, sniffing it. It smells of peat and rot; at some point, he must have slurred ‘scotch’ instead of ‘whiskey’ and been drinking that instead. He hates scotch; it always tastes of regret.

He ignores the woman with the glittering eyes, slumping over his arms and blearily wondering when the Courier will return. The Courier keeps strange hours, strange companions, often going for days or weeks at a time on mysterious journeys. It leaves Boone at loose ends, wandering around the empty casino that echoes with memories of its own.

So here he is, at the Tops, trying his hardest to get drunk and tune out the cheery music and noise of everyone else being so ridiculously, unfairly, _happy_ …

The woman is still trying to get his attention, licking her lips and fondling a cigarette like it’s a cock. She rubs one pale hand over her knee, parting her thighs to give him just enough of a show to let him know she is not wearing any panties…

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” asks a cool voice to his other side. Boone blinks, momentarily grateful that his glasses shield the surprise, and nods. Just as if he wasn’t too piss-drunk to notice someone taking the seat next to him. Rather than risk a slurred response, he just nods tersely.

“Shameless women, tawdry with only the faintest gloss of civilization to cover their naked barbarism. At least a bitch in heat makes no claims to a higher form of existence,” the speaker continues. Now Boone turns just slightly, angling his body to put him within his field of view. A pale, lean man with blue eyes and a strong nose. His dark hair is cut short beneath his dapper hat, something that makes Boone think with vague fondness of his military days. Somehow, the ‘bitch in heat’ comment makes him think of Cass—‘Whiskey Rose’ and all the bawdy things she says when drunk _and_ sober, but making no claims to being anything else—and it makes him chuckle.

Still, a vague chivalrous impulse makes him mutter, “Lot of men aren’t much better.”

“I never claimed men were innately more civilized either,” his companion says, lips curled upward in a mirthless smile. It is not a nice smile, but that chiseled face and the cruelty in that smile makes Boone’s dick twitch. He always liked men just fine—even if keeping it on the quiet while in First Recon, and then Carla… well, Carla meant no men—and tonight was about trying to forget, just for a little…

So, drunk on too much whiskey, too much scotch, and enough regret to drown the Mojave, Boone says, “Fuck civilization. Want to fuck?”

* * *

 

Vulpes nearly gapes in shock at the other man’s bold question, but only his Legion-instilled discipline keeps his face impassive. This was originally meant to be little more than reconnaissance, perhaps gaining the trust of one of the Courier’s companions, learning how their leader operated… but if Boone is amenable to more, well…

Gears turn rapidly, and it is calculation rather than lust that causes him to widen his smile, nodding. “Yes. But let us be clear, first—I am not gentle. And I prefer to be on top.”

“Fine by me,” the drunken sniper slurs, rising to his feet and rolling his shoulders back in a way that causes interesting things to happen to his chest and torso under the tightness of his white shirt. Vulpes stands as well, considering that at least Boone is a fine physical specimen. He would make a fine Legionary, even with his unfortunate sexual proclivities.

Ah well. When among the profligates, do as the profligates do.

He half-expects the inebriated man to fall over him once they are in the elevator, as intense and fumbling as a raw recruit with his first slave woman. But Boone maintains his distance, slumped against the wall as if they are simply strangers, rather than about to be bed-fellows. This is fine with Vulpes.

“Are you even going to ask my name?” Vulpes asks with scientific curiosity. He would provide a false one if asked, of course, but Boone’s lack of interest is odd.

“Not important.”

The next minute or so is spent in silence, before the elevator chimes itself open and they wander down a hallway. Boone fumbles in his pocket for the room key, then kicks the door open. Vulpes follows after, closing the door and carefully locking it. It would be so easy to kill the man now, of course—a man who professes to hate the Legion so, and would likely never be persuaded even if the Courier is swayed—but it seems a crueler and more fitting punishment to fuck him as he desires, using him for information.

Boone strips down unceremoniously, tossing his glasses aside and pulling his shirt off with one hand. Kicking off his boots, his pants and boxers soon follows, lying in a crumpled mess on the floor.

Allowing a faint scowl of distaste on his features, Vulpes instead neatly lays his hat down on a small chair. “Remove your socks.”

Boone’s eyes crinkle, dull confusion permeating his alcoholic fugue, but he obeys. Still fully clothed, Vulpes beckons to a table. “Come here.”

“Aren’t we going to fuck?” the sniper mumbles, reaching down to start stroking his semi-erect cock with one fist.

“Eventually. But I think you want to be _punished_ , first.” The other man’s eyes widen slightly in shocked recognition, and Vulpes smugly reflects that his powers of perception are keen as ever. “This isn’t just about your sordid need to be fucked by a man whose name you do not know. This is about shame, guilt, and pain. So let us skip over the subtext and instead, _highlight_ it.” He pats the table, allowing his pale fingers to stroke over the cool grain of the wood. “Bend over this table, and I will beat you. Then I will fuck you. Then you will thank me for it, clean up, and we will continue rendezvousing when we have the opportunity.”

* * *

 

Boone can feel his cheeks burning, not all of it from the alcohol. There’s always been pain involved in all his most erotic memories—from the first time fucking behind the barn with another teenager, when her arms slipped and she nearly choked him, to the last time he was on top of Carla, sweet Carla, and the way she bit him until he bled—but it was always accidental, almost incidental, except that he couldn’t figure out why he got so hard…

Fuck. Less than five minutes of talking, and this man already knew him better than he knew himself.

And the shame from this realization, mixed with the guilt ( _no Carla, our sex was the best, I love you Carla…_ ) swirls together in a heady cocktail, one he knows is sheer poison, but he can’t resist…

So he nods, mute and pale, and bends over the table. Presses his forearms to the wood, tenses against the blows he expects to come at any moment.

Instead, he feels the other man’s hand on his ass. Stroking softly, firmly, in a circular motion from the curve of his spine to the top of his thigh. A gentle pat with his fingers, barely harder than one might tap a keyboard. Both relieved and disappointed, he sighs, permitting himself to relax.

Then the blows start raining down. The first one takes him by surprise, causing him to yelp. Then the next few come down, moving with hard, measured precision across his buttocks. The other man’s free hand is pressed across the back of his neck, continuing his spanking with methodical efficiency. After about five or six of these spanks, the sharp edge of the pain starts blurring together, blows overlapping and creating a dullness of sensation instead. It hurts more than Boone would have thought, and he feels the heat of it building, imagines the white flesh turning red while the other man punishes him.

He has not been spanked since he was a child, and this is both so different and so strangely familiar that he has to blink, tears forming at the corner of his eyes that have little to do with the actual pain he is experiencing.

Then suddenly, abruptly, the man stops. He starts stroking again, his hand warm and soothing across the redness. It soothes and relieves the pain, letting Boone give a soft moan of relief. His cock is hard, almost pressing against the table with urgency. Good as it feels, this alone won’t help him come…

But before he can say this and ask the other man to start fucking him already, he is being spanked again. More blows, even harder and fiercer than before, his sensitive skin—falsely soothed by the tender strokes of earlier—now a clean canvas for more pain, moving down the fleshy buttocks to his upper thighs. Boone is sobbing now, pain and shame and guilt ( _I love you Carla, sorry Carla, I’m so fucking sorry I’m such a screw-up Carla…)_ tipping him over the edge until he is screaming, bucking his body and trying to stick his ass out and begging to be fucked, but his traitorous cock is already twitching, spitting a sticky load onto the carpet.

Oh yes. Oh shit. Oh… fuck, that was hot, even without any other stimulation. He is breathing heavily, physically spent even before starting what he would _normally_ consider the fucking.

“You are a _disgrace_ ,” the man hisses in his ear. “Embarrassing beyond all measure, to shame yourself with such little touch. I will not be gentle with you, but you have permission to fondle yourself as I plow your ass.”

* * *

 

He cannot believe that the other man came already. Boone wallows in depravity, but with just enough sense of shame to not completely disgust Vulpes. In fact, that awareness—that tattered remnant of self-respect, that miserable acceptance of his lot—is what lets the Frumentarius enjoy this. It is not simply the crude physical pleasure, but the breaking of the other man’s emotional walls. Breaking a slave is one of the most difficult but rewarding tasks for a member of the Legion—‘breaking,’ not ‘destroying’ or simply beating, but breaking the very will while allowing the other to remain functional.

He has no interest in enslaving Boone, but breaking him… that could be interesting. A project, even; something to work on while worming himself closer to the Courier’s confidants.

He will enjoy this.

So he simply watches as the other man takes his cock in hand, frantically pumping up and down the semi-flaccid member. The remnants of sticky white come and sweat work as lubricant, letting him move up and down with smooth, practiced strokes.

Then Vulpes reaches into his bag, pulling out a small jar of liniment. He unfastens his trousers, pulling his boxers down. Still mostly clothed, he generously smears the lubricant over his swollen erection. If he had been interested in gentleness or Boone’s pleasure, he would apply an additional coating to the man’s puckered sphincter, but he is not interested in those—and he suspects the other man would enjoy the roughness of being treated like chattel far better.

So when he thrusts into Boone’s ass, he does not stop when the man grunts with pain. He does not stop when Boone starts drumming his fists on the table, groaning and swearing a blue streak under his breath. He does not stop when those curses turn from mumbled obscenities to soft pleading, asking him to go faster. He does not pick up speed, instead keeping a slow, relentless rhythm that matches the earlier spankings he gave.

* * *

 

Boone can’t believe how much it hurts. His asshole is raw, almost ripped feeling, each thrust causing another short stab of pain even through the thickness of whatever greasy lubricant the other man is using. He can feel every movement the fucker makes, their balls slapping together, the rumpled folds of his pants hitting the back of Boone’s legs, the way his shirt rustles against Boone’s bare back…

Fucker asked him to take off his socks, but won’t even strip down himself.

It’s okay. It feels good; it hurts, and it feels good. It makes him feel devalued, dehumanized ( _Sorry Carla, I love you Carla, I’m a shitty husband Carla_ …) and that somehow feeds directly to his cock, since he’s semi-erect again even though he knows he doesn’t have enough juice left in his balls to fire off again.

Eventually, he feels the other man groan, his hands clasping Boone’s hips and grinding in with one last thrust. A sudden rush of something warm and wet in his ass lets him know the other man finally came, the man pulling out with a last slick movement. He pats his ass familiarly, like some kind of fucked-up ‘thank you for services rendered’ gesture, and he can hear the stranger pull up his pants, buckling up.

Boone is still bent over the table, panting and trying to recover his breath. Then he hears that cool voice ask, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?” Boone asks, biting back a tinge of irritation. They fucked, they both came (even if at different times) and the game is over, as far as he’s concerned.

“You need to thank me. Clean up. And then we will consider our next meeting.”

Boone considers yelling ‘fuck you’ at him, but there is the fact he is still naked, and the other man’s fully clothed now. Even his hat is on when Boone dares look back, and something about that—being naked, the other man’s jizz still streaming out his asshole—creates a power dynamic that he can’t help responding to.

“Sorry, sir. Thank you, sir,” he mumbles.

“More clearly. And what are you thanking me for?”

Boone bites down the rage, swallows his pride, and thinks that he is going to furiously masturbate to this scene for weeks to come. “Sorry, sir. And thank you for providing me some much-needed discipline, sir.”

“Excellent. Now clean up.” The other man’s pale eyes just glint with dark amusement, and Boone frowns, looking about to figure out what there is to clean. His clothing, sure, but when he reaches for it, trying to pull his pants back on, the man shakes his head. “The mess you made,” he elaborates, slow and simple as if speaking to a child. He points a finger to the carpet, and Boone’ stomach roils. Dammit, he can’t mean….

Oh shit, he does. When Boone picks up his shirt and kneels, about to use it to mop up the spilled spunk, the man groans.

“Do I need to shove a shotgun up your ass before you pay attention? _Lick_ it up.”

So, cheeks burning and semen dripping down his thighs, Boone sets the shirt aside. He kneels, nose almost touching the floor, and licks his own spunk up from the filthy carpet. It tastes faintly sour, gloppy against the back of his tongue, and mixed with grit and stale cigarette ash.

He still tastes it when he agrees to meet the man one week later.


	2. 'HI'

Cass thinks Boone is up to something squirrely.

Hell, more than thinks—she _knows_ he’s up to something squirrely. The man might have the best poker-face in the world (even if wearing those dark glasses all the time counts as cheating, in her opinion) but he is also a creature of habit. When the night rolls around and he wants to go drown himself in a bottle, he likes to drink at the Tops.

Going to Gomorrah? That right there is suspicious.

Especially because he does not actually _say_ he’s going to Gomorrah. When Cass offers to go drinking with him, he just gives a quiet “No.”

But Cass is nosy. And when she watches him leave—discreetly, mind you—she sees him go in the _wrong fucking casino._

Now, Boone wouldn’t be the first man ashamed of paying to wet his dick, but he doesn’t need to pay. If all he wanted was some eager pussy, hell, there’s Cass herself. Or if he doesn’t like redheads (a flaw, in her opinion, but at least something she understands) all he’d have to do would be flex his muscles, tell his sob story, and pick up any piece of tail he wants.

So Cass, being a loyal and nosy friend, decides to tail him.

* * *

 

Vulpes smiles as Boone approaches. He has already selected a small table in the corner, and has been entertaining himself—for a given value of ‘entertainment’—by watching the dancers gyrate across the stage. They are curiously shameless about their exhibitionism, which has given Vulpes his idea for tonight’s activity.

But for now, there is small talk to make and intelligence to gather.

“I took the liberty of ordering three shots of whiskey for you,” he says without preamble. Boone just grunts, taking the seat across from him. “That will be your limit for tonight, and you will drink only when I say so. But for now…” He smiles, the glossy falseness as practiced as any showman’s. “Let us get to know one another.”

“Still don’t know your name,” the sniper mutters, leaning on his forearms.

“Do you wish to know my name? Tell me honestly, now,” Vulpes chides, raising an eyebrow. “Knowing my name would take the mystery out of it.”

Boone stares at Vulpes over the top of his dark glasses, gaze distant. “…no,” he admits.

For a moment, he toys with the idea of telling Boone his name anyway—his real name, not the false cognate he uses on missions such as this—for the sheer pleasure of watching the man self-destruct. But that would jeopardize everything for the sake of a passing fancy. Instead, he chuckles. “I thought not.”

So they talk of small things, building a baseline for Vulpes to learn Boone’s responses. Inconsequential topics such as the weather, the booze, the dancers—and then he probes a little deeper. Asks about his family, if he has ever sired a child—answers he already knows, having taken the trouble to look for the slave-takers’ copy of the contract for Boone’s wife and child. But when he sees the man’s jaw clench and the crease forming at his temple, he knows he has cracked the stoic’s code.

“I apologize. A sensitive topic, I see. Allow me to grant you a drink.”

Boone needs no second invitation, grabbing one of the shot glasses and swigging it with a desperation grown out of hot rage and cold fury. “Fucker.”

“I do fuck, yes. Perhaps we should pursue a safer topic?”

From there it is quite easy to steer the conversation towards Boone’s current deployment, his opinion of his companions, what he has observed of the Courier—but halfway through a highly improbable tale of the Courier’s journey to Zion, he notices a lean woman with red hair leaning against the bar. Watching them.

She is quite good at disguising her interest, but Vulpes is a Frumentarius. He recognizes spy-work when he sees it.

He also recognizes the woman—the fancifully named Sharon Rose of Cassidy. Another of the Courier’s companions.

He decides to give her something to watch.

* * *

 

Cass nearly wrinkles her nose in disgust at Boone’s drinking buddy. She likes her men with a little dirt under the nails, callouses from hard work and the muscles to match. This pale stranger in the nice suit and hat looks too clean.

Just what the hell are they doing together?

She’s not close enough to really eavesdrop, but at least she can watch them. Looks like they are just talking, shooting the shit—but Boone’s doing most of the talking for a change. What could make the tight-lipped sniper open up like that?

She also sees the three shots on the table, and how Boone finally takes one. The other man isn’t drinking; or at least not yet. They aren’t getting rowdy like it’s a drinking game, and she doesn’t see any other reason why they aren’t just taking their shots like ordinary people would.

Starting to grow bored with this exercise in blinking her eyes, she stiffens as she notices the pale man take one of the shots in his right hand. His left hand extends to Boone’s mouth, resting his fingers on the man’s bottom lip, palm down. Then he starts… what the hell is he doing?

He slowly pours the shot down the back of his hand, the amber liquid trickling over his knuckles and dripping down his fingers. It glistens in the light, catching and refracting it as Boone starts suckling on those elegant digits. When a drop of whiskey threatens to fall to the table, Boone immediately moves to lap it from the man’s hand. His tongue flashes pink and wet against the ivory of the man’s skin. Cass has seen body shots before—hell, she’s even done them herself—but a body shot is _supposed_ to be sexy, an excuse to lick over someone’s chest and belly and go exploring. But a hand?

She would never have thought of _hands_ being sexy, but the way his long fingers catch on Boone’s lips, the way the sniper sucks desperately at him, just… it is shamelessly sensual, all the more hot for how brazen they are. It’s not as if they are even showing any extra skin, but it teases at her imagination, thinking of Boone suckling and licking on other things…

For fuck’s sake, she’s getting wet just watching them.

* * *

 

Vulpes keeps his features perfectly still, not letting the red-haired woman know that he knows she’s watching. Boone was reluctant at first to so debase himself in public, but then again, this is Gomorrah. A den of iniquity, where this is but one perversion among many, and Boone soon grew into his role.

Now, as he wraps his lips about Vulpes’ thumb, the Legion spy pours the other shot into his own mouth. He holds it carefully, not swallowing, and rises to his feet. Boone remains sitting, unconsciously having already accepted his role. Prying the seated man’s mouth open with his thumb and forefinger, he proceeds to release the whiskey into Boone’s mouth. The liquor cascades easily down, Boone eagerly swallowing it down.

“Let us go upstairs. I have something different planned for tonight,” he murmurs, casually wiping his hand on Boone’s shirt. The profligate shakes his head hazily, as if gathering himself, but follows quietly. They go to the check-in, and Vulpes breezily dismisses him, asking him to call an elevator. Once the sniper’s back is turned, he leans in easily to whisper to the receptionist.  “I would like one of the… mirrored rooms. There will be a show tonight for the red-haired woman in the cowboy hat. When she comes by, give her the key for the viewing room adjacent to ours.”

“Certainly, sir,” the painted harlot responds, smiling as she passes the key. Vulpes merely gives a wintry smile, catching up with Boone just as the elevator doors open.

* * *

 

Cass waits until both of them have just left the room, then immediately bolts from her chair. Careful to stay behind various groups of drunken revelers, she sees the man in the suit get a room key, then enter the elevator with Boone. Quickly approaching the desk, she demands, “What room did those two get?”

Rather than put up the normal ‘I’m only telling if you’re paying’ bullshit she has come to expect in Vegas, the receptionist just smiles brightly. “Oh! Your friends left a key for you! Just make your way upstairs, and remember to keep the lights off!”

Furrowing her brow, Cass decides not to question this unexpected bounty. She isn’t sure just what game Boone and his friend are playing at, but she aims to find out.

She has to wait for the next elevator, and then punch the floor. She spends the brief trip pacing the confines of the tiny box, and once the tiny ‘ding’ sounds and the door opens, she immediately bolts for the room number engraved on the key. It takes her two tries to stab the lump of metal into the keyhole, rattling the door open. The room is dark, and she almost flips the light on despite the receptionist’s warning, but then _another_ light flips on.

Jaw dropping, she realizes one wall of the room is actually made of glass—a one-way mirror, allowing her to glimpse into the next room. The other room is starkly furnished, with just a simple, armless wooden chair and a velvet-trimmed lounge chair. A thin pillow and a length of rope are on the floor.

The strange man is leaning back on the lounge chair, while Boone stands naked beside the wooden chair. A fat black plug is on the seat, glistening from its gentle taper down to the flared base. Cass has never used one before, but has a pretty good idea of where it’s supposed to go.

Just what kind of kinky shit is Boone _into_?

* * *

 

“Sit on it. You may use your hand to grip the base, if you must,” Vulpes commands. “Stay facing the mirror though. I want you to watch yourself.”

His newest toy just grunts, looking at the chair. “That’s a real awkward angle.”

“I know. Do it anyway.”

Boone looks as though he might fight, about to swear, but he looks at Vulpes. Looks at the trappings of power, of respectability—the Prewar finery, Vulpes’ meticulously clean fingernails and smooth-shaven features, meant to fit among the pampered profligates of New Vegas—and is won over by these surface charms.

Groaning, he straddles the chair awkwardly. He looks at the mirror first, seeing his naked form reflected in it. Watches the curve of his belly, the flexing of his thighs as he starts lowering himself onto the lubricated butt plug. Watching him watch himself, Vulpes feels a warm glow of pride. This alone would have been interesting, forcing Boone to watch his own degradation, but he knows the red-haired woman must be in the other room by now, watching them.

And if she is as depraved as Boone, then she will watch the entire show.

* * *

 

Cass watches Boone sit on the plug, the tapered form slowly sliding into his ass. The sniper’s mouth is open, groaning even though Cass cannot hear it through the glass. She watches his toes curl, then clench together as he bites his lip. His mouth is still wet with whiskey, surprisingly pink under the stark lighting.

Once he is completely seated, the butt plug entirely up his ass, Boone’s mouth lolls open, panting soundlessly as he starts stroking himself. He keeps watching the mirror—watching her? Knowing she is spying on him?—as he does this, head turning side to side like a bighorner trying to keep you in its line of sight. His cock is just as gorgeous as she always thought it would be, thick and firm with a single popping vein running along the underside of his shaft. She watches him brush his hand over his cock, rocking back and forth on top of the butt plug, and lets out a low whistle. Almost against her will, she starts touching herself through her pants, feeling for her throbbing clit.

Then… what is he doing? She sees the other man’s mouth move, and then Boone stops touching himself, instead reaching for the rope on the floor. He starts tying his own legs to the legs of the chair, keeping his knees spread wide and shameless. She can’t even pretend the other man is _forcing_ him to do this; Boone is doing it entirely on his own, shaping haphazard knots that make her want to shake him and yell ‘ _no_ , this is how a _real_ cowgirl does a knot!’ but they seem effective for trapping his legs.

His upper body is still free to masturbate, rocking back and forth as he pumps his fist up and down his cock frantically. A fine sheen of sweat is forming on those delectable shoulders, making her want to lick them and nuzzle away at the line of his clavicle. His mouth parts (and oh, she wants to suck on that tongue just gently resting on his lower lip) and he sighs, his thighs starting to twitch and she thinks he is just about to make his ‘O’ face—

* * *

 

\--but Vulpes makes him stop, displeased.

“What sort of show is this going to be if you come so quickly?” he says chidingly. “If you were watching one of those degenerate dancers on stage and they did this tawdry little performance, would you feel you got your money’s worth?”

“So what should I do?” Boone says gruffly. Vulpes can read his emotional state much better now, thanks to their little warm-up at the bar; he detects sullenness, with just enough anger lurking beneath the surface to make things interesting. But he is still obedient, too caught up in their role and this game to completely break free.

“Make it interesting. Tell me a fantasy of one of your companions. I want to hear you describe it so clearly I can imagine one of them is fucking you right now.” He rises to his feet, walking over to the half-tied man. Smiles brightly, all teeth before nuzzling behind Boone’s ear. “If you need inspiration, perhaps that caravan-trader you mentioned? She sounded like a woman who knows how to command a man.”

That sparks Boone’s creativity, and he starts masturbating vigorously again. Vulpes kneads his shoulders, too firm to be truly sensual, and sets his teeth against the back of Boone’s neck.

“Cass would… fuck. She’d fuck me raw,” Boone mutters, still pumping up and down. He can’t resist opening his eyes, moaning at the sight of himself spread out before the mirror. It is all the dirty voyeuristic thrill of watching a stranger, but it’s _him_ and that adds the tingle of exhibitionism.

“How would she fuck you? Position? Would she beat you first, or simply order you to obey?” Vulpes whispers, biting hard enough to make Boone gasp.

“She would… knowing her, she’d probably just fucking barge in. Order me to strip and get my dick hard. Maybe smack my ass with a paddle or a crop if I didn’t move quick enough…” he groans, tilting his head to allow Vulpes to move in on the tender area between the shoulder and his throat. Vulpes alternates suckling and biting, creating a line of redness that crawls down the left side of Boone’s chest.

“Then what would she do?” Vulpes asks, reaching between Boone’s legs to grip his balls. He simply squeezes them gently, hard enough to cause Boone’s voice to rise and pour sweat down his ears but not enough to truly damage him.

“She would… fuck, she’d ride me like a cowgirl. Probably keep wearing that damn hat, too. Just… fuck me. Use me up. Me flat on my back, her on top. Tits bouncing. Bet her freckles go all the way down…” Boone groans, rolling his head to the other side as Vulpes grips his chin. Carefully, deliberately, the Frumentarius makes a matching red line of bite-marks and hickeys down the other side of his chest.

“Would she respect you?”

“Fuck… no. She’d just want a quick lay. No strings, no emotions—I’m too much of a fuck-up to be more than a cheap lay…” His voice catches, self-inflicted shame turning his cheeks even redder than they already are. Then he gasps again, almost howling as Vulpes creates a third line down the center of his chest.

“Fuck...”

* * *

 

Cass watches intently, rubbing her clit almost raw through the thin fabric of her cheap panties. Her pants are unzipped, but she didn’t want to completely remove them because that would take too much time away from watching the deliciously hot scene of Boone jacking off.

She’s still not sure what kind of kinky shit they’re doing—well, other than exhibitionism, obviously—because the man in the suit stays fully clothed, just biting and sucking on Boone as the sniper jacks off. It doesn’t look tender at all; but maybe that’s part of why it’s so damn hot. Her palm grinds frantically against her clit, fingers touching on her soaked underwear as she starts riding out an orgasm, harder and more powerful than anything she’s felt before….

And it looks like Boone’s coming too, his dick spitting a white load that spatters over his belly as he cries. The other man pinches his chest, biting hard on his neck, and Boone slumps his head, turns almost as if he’s about to try kissing him—

But then the other man stops him, slapping his face. No kissing allowed, apparently.

Cass is about to shake her head at their strangeness—really, Boone, you could always find a little rough trade that has some actual _affection_ behind it—but then realizes something. Stares at the red lines on Boone’s chest, plus that pinched little red dot connecting two of them…

The fucker wrote ‘HI’ on Boone, using bites and hickeys and spit.

Shit. He knew she was there all along. He had to have known she was there to get her the key in the first place, but he _knew_ she actually went up and watched the whole damn thing?

She swears under her breath. Does that mean Boone knows? Or is this another sick game where Boone doesn’t know about the show he just put on?

Fuck. She has questions to ask.

* * *

 

Boone is starting to confuse carnal attention for genuine affection, which Vulpes has to slap him for. Their game is not about love or friendship, but pain, shame, and guilt.

As he had told him from the very first night.

Boone cannot even blame him for establishing those rules; not when he had agreed to them so readily at first. Vulpes also reflects that by toying with him, carefully parceling out tokens of affection and interest later, he will bind the man ever closer to him. His personal loyalty can be gained through bribery and other machinations, even if it would be too much to consider having him join the Legion.

Ah well. One step at a time; sexual satisfaction will do as a temporary bond, at least.

He watches, allowing Boone to untie himself from the chair, but says “Wait,” when Boone attempts to remove the plug from his ass.

Boone pauses, turning to fix him with a dead stare. “Why?”

“Keep that in. I like the look of it in you,” Vulpes says grandiloquently, steepling his fingers. “I would like you to wear it out of here. Perhaps keep it in you every night until we meet again.”

Again, Boone pauses—and there is that delectable mix of emotions in his stony gaze. Guilt, anger, shame—but he nods, terse and obedient.

“Fine. When do we meet?”

Vulpes names the time, the place—and with a sly grin, adds, “Why not invite Cass? Even if she does not live up to your expectations, she might make an interesting dinner companion.”

“I am not fucking Cass,” Boone says, just a bit too quickly. Vulpes might believe him more if he hadn’t just screamed her name during his orgasm.

“I am not expecting you to,” he adds smoothly. “But if the option presents itself… why not? She sounds like quite a lovely lady.”

Boone shrugs, getting dressed briskly.

“Now… remember to thank me.”

Boone fits his glasses on, chewing the inside of his lip before he hesitantly says, “Thank you, sir.”

“For what?”

He frowns, trying to think of a more articulate reason. “Thank you for… showing me how much I like showing off.”

Vulpes chuckles, opening the door for him. “You certainly do.”


	3. Wildcat

Cass about panics as she sees Boone leaving the small room, thinking that she needs to get going before they come knocking on her door—but Boone walks quickly by, his footsteps echoing down the hall. But the other man is still there, smiling wryly at her through the glass, and her heart sinks as she realizes she is going to have to talk to the shiny-suited fucker.

Well, shit. If she doesn’t like what he says, he can always talk to her fists.

Rather than wait like a cooped-up stock animal, she elects to go meet him on ‘his’ turf. Wiping her hand off on her britches—it still smells of warm pussy, but that can’t be helped—she stalks out of the little spy-room, flinging the door open on the man in the shiny suit.

“Ah, the lovely Rose of Sharon,” he says smoothly, bowing from the waist.

“If you knew my name, you’d know damn well nobody calls me that,” she challenges, jutting her chin out. “Who the fuck are you?”

He smiles—or at least that’s what you call it when the lips turn up, right? Even if it’s about as warm as a nuclear winter. “Do you actually wish to know my name? I find that Boone prefers—“

“I’m not fucking Boone,” Cass snorts, crossing her arms in front of her. For some reason, that just makes him laugh, smile widening. Yeah, it’s definitely not a nice smile. Too much teeth, too much edge to it, like a wolf. Boone might be rough about the edges, but he’s a plain ol’ domestic dog next to this man.

“Very well. You may call me Cole,” he chuckles. “You know, you learned my name before Boone did.”

Thinking of Boone makes her hackles rise, all hot indignation muddled with confused lust and trying not to look at his hands, thinking of Boone sucking them clean of whiskey… So she boldly asks, “What kind of sick games are you playing with him?”

“He is a willing participant,” ‘Cole’ says mildly, but Cass is not so easily persuaded. ‘Cole’ sounds like a fake name to her, something she _‘may’_ call him, not something he actually claimed as real…

“Willing or not, you aren’t nice to that boy. He’s fucked in the head,” the freckled woman growls, stepping closer and jabbing a finger against his chest. He feels firm and solid beneath the smooth cloth, the fine material almost making her want to stop her diatribe and just stroke her hands up and down… but she wheels her treacherous thoughts back, glaring him dead in the eyes.

“I can be very nice, miss Cass,” Cole murmurs, cupping his hand over hers so gently that she registers little more than warmth, not even the pressure of another’s skin pressed to hers. Then he presses more firmly, and she twists her hand to hold his, palm to palm. She feels callouses on his hands now, especially the palms and the trigger finger.

Well. Mister Fancy-suit does know some hard living after all.

* * *

 

Vulpes is surprised when Cass squeezes his hand, eyes locking with his as a devilish grin, bordering on a snarl, appears on those thin lips. She might be a woman, but she has more fight in her than Boone. She is no less degenerate though, whispering, “So. You got Boone all twisted around those fingers, but let’s see what’s under the covers.”

There is no love to this amorous invitation, instead kissing him fiercely and biting his lip, causing him to groan against her mouth. He responds with animal instinct, thrusting back with his tongue and forcing his hands to her shoulders, but she is stronger than she appears, pushing him back so that they are in an almost childish shoving match. Finally, he makes a wrong move, and she takes advantage of his shift in posture to release his mouth and press him into the lounge chair.

“I’ll be damned if I know what your deal with Boone is, but mine is simple. We fuck, we have fun, and maybe we’ll meet up again,” she says curtly, rubbing her palm over the swell of his erection. With a cocky smirk, she adds, “At least it looks like you like girls too.”

“I don’t know if you’re a ‘girl’ so much as a force of nature,” Vulpes laughs, genuine surprise—and not a little delight—running through him. Cass might be a profligate, but her enthusiasm is a refreshing change from Legion comfort-women, among who even the most willing are but a pale shadow next to Cass’ raw vitality.

“Nah. I’m a cowgirl, and I aim to ride you raw,” she snorts, deft hands undoing his suit. This unconscious mimicry of Boone’s fantasy causes him to laugh again, which just makes her cock an eyebrow. “I don’t like being laughed at, and I’m sure as hell not laughing, so you’re not laughing _with_ me.”

“No, no,” he hastens to assure her, running his hands over her denim-clad thighs and slowly unbuttoning her shirt. The cloth catches over her bare skin—the profligate does not even have an undershirt—causing his eyes to widen appreciatively as her lithe form is exposed for his eager eyes. She undulates slowly, graceful as a dancer, but with a rowdy energy that he is rapidly associating as pure Cass. “I am simply… pleased. I don’t believe I ever met a woman like you before.”

“You’ve never _fucked_ a woman like me before,” she corrects, almost ripping his belt off in her haste to free his erection. He kisses her hungrily, trailing along her ear and down her neck, connecting the gold-dust freckles on her skin with warm flicks of his tongue. Vulpes normally does not think of kissing during intercourse—it feels too intimate, too close for the simple release he usually requires—but he wants to kiss Cass. Instead of giving of himself, it feels like feeding a flame, nourishing their kindled lust.

He almost laughs again, but silences himself by kissing her rose-bud nipples. Her breasts are perfectly formed, cupped under his hands as if made just for him. Just as Boone thought, the freckles _do_ go all the way down, chocolate dots fading to golden sprinkles over the creamy skin of her belly. She moves like a hurricane, stripping him down and urging him out of his pants. Her own jeans come off shortly after, quickly followed by dropping her panties to the floor and crawling on top of him. He lies back on the soft lounger, reaching up to squeeze her breasts as she starts sliding on his cock. The wet heat of her cunt taunts him, her slickness dripping along his shaft but denying him entry until he groans softly, reaching down to adjust himself. Gripping the base, he shifts the angle until Cass slides easily down, her eyes closing with a pleased sigh.

“Oh damn, that’s nice. Now don’t you quit on me yet,” she orders, briskly rocking back and forth to build momentum before vigorously bouncing up and down. Her thighs clasp his hips so tightly he is certain he’ll have bruises by morning, and she grips her hat with one hand—another part just like Boone’s fantasy, but he’s already stolen the man’s role—to keep it from jostling off. This conveniently leaves her breasts exposed, letting him watch them bounce freely, hypnotically, before she demands, “Hey! Keep touching my tits!”

This too is part of the novelty; who would have thought a woman could be so bold? Who would have thought that the great Vulpes Inculta would be so fascinated by a raucous profligate woman? Who would have thought…?

* * *

 

 _Who would have thought such a cold fish would be such a hot lover?_ Cass thinks to herself, gasping as he tilts his body _just_ right so his cock hits that sweet spot, and he squeezes her breasts just right too, neither too firm and mauling like a teenager at his first rodeo, nor too light like a hesitant girl afraid of breaking something.

In short, just about perfect.

She already came watching the so-called ‘Cole’ and Boone, but the second orgasm always (for her, at least) takes much less work, and she’s soon swearing a blue streak as she feels her body clamping down, toes curling and her voice rising two or three octaves as she screams, “Fuck, yeah! Don’t you _dare_ fucking come, ‘cuz I’m not done yet…!”

The last part of her scream ends up muffled by his kiss, the pale man sitting up to press his lips on hers, suckling and nibbling on her lower lip, and _fuck_ if it doesn’t just get her hotter. Still trembling with the aftershocks of her climax, she rasps, “Okay. Let’s flip over now. I want you on top.”

“Oh? Tired of being in charge?” he asks, and—holy shit, is he actually smiling? It’s small and looks about as out of place on him as a virgin at a brothel, but that looks like a genuine smile, lips turned up and everything, without that smug asshole look.

She just bats his face with her hat, sliding off him and nudging him to the side. He makes room for her on the lounger, and she lies down on her back. “If you think being on the bottom means I’ve given up, you better have another damn think,” she warns, squeezing his shoulders as he fits himself back in. This time, she’s so slick and warmed up that he doesn’t need to use his hands, instead sheathing himself in her with one brisk thrust. Cass moans, flinging her hat to the side and wrapping her legs about him. Her feet drum against his lower back as she curls down, gripping one side of his ass with her hand and clawing his back with the other hand.

Using these two points of leverage, she easily guides him into her favored rhythm, groaning as their bodies move in synchrony. Shit. Usually it takes at least a couple lays for her to work this kind of pattern with a partner, but damn if Cole isn’t a quick learner. She still makes him work for it though, clawing his back red and near bloody, biting his shoulder ever harder as he sends another cascade of orgasms through her, and she’s _coming_ , she’s fucking coming again, coming all over and oh fuck…!

* * *

 

She might call herself a cowgirl, but Vulpes thinks she’s a wildcat—feral energy and lithe beauty bound together in an elegant package. Even her crude speech is growing on him, her lack of restraint just underlining how genuine her emotions are. He nearly hisses with pain as she bites him, claws him, feeling his flesh turn red and sting, but he has been trained to withstand much worse, for so much less reward than this bundle of eager and willing woman wrapped around and under him. He tries to hold back, determined to give her climax after climax, but the flesh is miserably weak in the face of her heated enthusiasm, and he groans as he starts to feel his balls tighten, his cheeks clenching as he is about to come…

“Hold it right there, asshole!” she snaps, immediately shoving him out. The sudden loss of her warmth makes him groan in disappointment, his erection throbbing futilely against her belly. “I’m not ready to make little Cassidy’s yet, so no spitting your load in me!”

His disappointment must be obvious, since she immediately follows up with a startled laugh. “What, you think I’d just leave you in the cold? C’mon up here,” she beckons, crooking her finger. Just a bit confused, he crawls on his knees towards her head. His knees press uncomfortably in the side of this oversized lounge chair, but that is immediately forgotten as she wraps her lips about him. One hand wraps around the base of his cock, providing more stimulation and creating the welcome illusion of being entirely enveloped in her eager mouth. Her tongue laps against the slit of his cock, and he groans…

She just keeps sucking, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of his come as he drains himself, sighing when his penis is finally limp and spent. When done, she releases him from her mouth with a soft ‘pop,’ grinning up at him as if treasuring a terrible secret.

“Had fun?” she asks, chuckling as she already knows the answer.

“Yes. By—“ He cuts that short, realizing that swearing by Mars would quickly blow his cover. Blowing his load on a mission is perfectly acceptable, but his identity? He would be utterly disgraced as a Frumentarius. “By everything I hold dear, that was… excellent.” Waxing verbose over her sexual prowess will not impress her, but he suspects she already knows how affected he is. What a woman; if the opportunity ever arises, he intends to take her as a slave-concubine.

“More or less fun than fucking with Boone?” she asks, but now her eyes are narrowing, body casually rolling to the side.

“Much more, my dear lady. But Boone has… needs,” he says smoothly, trying to determine her interest. It would appear there is more than mere prurient voyeurism in play.

“I wouldn’t trust Boone not to drown in the rain if he looked up,” she says frankly, propping herself up on one elbow. “Just ‘cause he’s saying ‘yes’ doesn’t mean it’s healthy for him. And fun as you are, I think you’re a bad, bad man.”

 _Oh, my dear, you don’t know just how bad,_ he reflects, giving a warm chuckle. “If you are so concerned for his well-being, perhaps you should come to our next meeting. You seemed to have enough fun watching this one,” he adds, raising an eyebrow invitingly.

She refuses to be baited, just laughing. “I don’t want to just watch, Cole. I want to participate. If not, I’m making sure Boone doesn’t make it to your next boner-fest.”

Even better than anticipated. He laughs now, genuine pleasure leaking through as he leans in confidingly. “Oh, I certainly want you to participate. Just don’t tell Boone you’re coming,” he adds, giving her the time and place.

He expects the next rendezvous to be even more fun.


	4. Relationship Dynamics

Boone thinks Cass is up to no damn good.

The freckled redhead is always mouthy and right on the edge between obnoxious and friendly, but the past week she’s been acting like something crawled up her ass and died. Which—and here he shifts uncomfortably, very aware of the weight and heft of the plug in his ass as he walks down the Strip—is ironic, considering he’s the one with the plug.

Unless she’s wearing one too, under those britches.

The thought doesn’t even make him crack a smile, since he’s so aware of the thick object inside him. Every step is an exercise in control and pained pleasure, every footfall a gentle vibration that echoes up his leg and directly to the toy. At least wearing the shades means he only has to worry on keeping his mouth straight.

He’s sweating. Not just heat, but excitement. He doesn’t think he even really likes the pale-skinned stranger, but damn if he doesn’t get his dick hard. He’s popping a boner right now, but keeping one hand in his pocket, he is able to mask the bulge.

It’ll be good to get away from Cass for tonight.

* * *

 

“Hey, Ronnie,” Cass calls, leaning against the wall with one foot hitched up on it. Now that Boone is safely down the elevator, she feels ready to share the plan.

The brunette—still wearing that stupid hood, which Cass thinks is both damn ugly and impractical as hell for a fist-fighter—pokes her head out of her room, where she’s been futzing with some weapons repairs. “What’s up?”

“You been sticking around the Strip with the Courier longer than I have. There’s someone I want you to take a peep at,” Cass drawls, tilting the brim of her hat up so she can meet Veronica’s gaze squarely. “I talked with him a bit, but I think he’s giving me a fake name.” Seeing the skeptical look on the other woman’s face, Cass gives a full belly laugh. “No, he’s not afraid I’ll hunt him up for money or babies or any of that shit. Hell, he even wanted a second date. But something’s screwy with him, and I aim to find out what.”

“And you think my impeccable memory and vast array of acquaintances means I can help you out?” Veronica asks, arms crossed and still looking unconvinced.

Cass shrugs. “Better idea than I got, which was trying to snap a picture and pass it out saying ‘Do you know this asshole?’”

Crinkling her eyebrows, Veronica makes a disgusted face. “I hope you mean ‘asshole’ as in ‘jerk,’ not anatomy. Or are you—“

“Hell, he might be into that for all I know. Not my problem, not my business, I’m not doing that with him. But are you in?”

Something in Cass’ tone—perhaps her steely determination, perhaps her uncharacteristic sobriety—resonates with Veronica, and she nods reluctantly. “Fine. I’m in.”

“Thanks, doll. But just so you know, Boone might be there, and I don’t want anyone to recognize you. So let’s talk about changing that head-gear…”

* * *

 

Vulpes is already seated at a table in the Tops. While Gomorrah was enjoyable for last week’s activities, he feels that Cass would not appreciate the possibility of being spied on. Truth be told, if he _had_ to pick a den of degeneracy to frequent with both Cass and Boone, he would prefer the Ultra-Luxe, simply to make Boone feel as out of place as possible… but again, Cass would most likely not appreciate that for entirely different reasons.

So here he is at the Tops, sipping a sweet blend of Nuka Cola and whiskey. It is something he can drink without arousing suspicion—for nothing sticks out so much in New Vegas as a man who does not imbibe—and without clouding his senses too much.

He sees the man in the beret first, walking with such an uneasy gait that Vulpes already knows he has obeyed his instructions from last time. The fact that he does this humiliating thing without any sort of discipline or commands needing to be applied in the intervening week already speaks volumes of his self-abasement. Excellent.

Boone sits down gingerly across from him, knees almost bumping his under the table. Vulpes simply shifts his posture so they are no longer in contact.

“We will go upstairs shortly. I am just waiting for a friend to show up,” Vulpes comments, sliding his half-finished drink across the table.

“Never said anything about a friend,” Boone says tersely, fixing his gaze on Vulpes so the Frumentarius can see himself reflected in the glasses.

“I did not. This was a spur of the moment invitation. I expect you will enjoy the encounter regardless.”

The man feigns disinterest with a grunt, but Vulpes observes the way he breathes just a little more rapidly, nostrils flaring. A small trickle of sweat comes down behind his ear, glistening under the bright lights of the casino.

“Why not entertain me in the meantime? Tell me more of your adventures with your fearless leader.”

* * *

 

Cass enters the Tops by herself, cheerfully whistling as she scans the casino for the two men. She gave Veronica her instructions, and it is Cass’ job to keep ‘Cole’ distracted enough that he won’t notice the other woman keeping tabs on him. Hopefully she’ll have an ID by morning.

And another couple orgasms. Mystery man or no, Cole is still pretty fucking hot. And she’d like to try out Boone’s merchandise too, if the opportunity presents itself. Or even if it doesn’t, Cass reckons she’s pretty good at making her own opportunities.

She spots Boone’s beret first, the sniper facing away from her and drinking something dark. Good. She can go right up and surprise him. Edging through the crowd, deft as a nightstalker through a cactus patch, she settles her hands on the man’s shoulders and breathes, “Hey there, stranger,” in his ear, followed by a lick.

He tenses, jaws tightening as he turns his head up to face her. Even with those fucking stupid shades on, she can tell he’s glaring. “Cass? What the fuck?”

“Our surprise guest,” Cole says, smiling with far too many teeth showing. “She was quite charming when I met her, and we thoroughly discussed last week’s encounter.”

“Yeah. About that.” Cass hooks her thumb in her belt-loops, giving Vulpes the best damn fish-eye she can. Even if she’s never seen a fish. “So we’re clear, I’m in this for fun. I’m not into the same kind of shit you are. Anyone tries to do more than a bit of slap and tickle or taking charge with me, I’m out. Gone like yesterday.”

Boone is quiet—and she still thinks that poker face of his is cheating, what with the glasses, but his cheeks are pale, pasty and drained. So she slaps his shoulder encouragingly, adding, “And if the freaky shit gets too freaky, you can call it quits too.”

“He likes having his limits pushed,” Cole argues, reaching across the table to squeeze Boone’s other shoulder. The sniper remains silent.

Cass can smile with too many teeth too. “I think he’d like speaking for himself.” Her hand settles possessively on the sniper, eyes locked with Cole’s.

Of course, rather than speak up and prove her right, the big damn fool keeps his mouth shut, just finishing the drink in one long swallow. Cole just smirks, patting Boone’s shoulder like he’s a prize-winning Brahmin. Cass forces herself to laugh, thinking that there are all kinds of fucked-up in Boone’s head, and unfastens the top button of her shirt.

“Well, shit. No fooling you, I suppose,” she murmurs, leaning in to kiss the pale man. She makes it long and hard, sure to slip him plenty of tongue and grinding against his mouth, her thighs pressing into the edge of the table while she grips Boone’s shoulder for support. He’s fun to kiss, at least, even if it’s just to let Veronica move around and know this is the target. But it’s easy to forget her mission, just feeling his face against hers and the way he growls deep in his throat when her teeth graze his lip. He tastes sweet and slightly sticky, with the familiar warm bite of whiskey on his breath…

When at last she pulls away, he blinks slowly, as if coming out of a daze. At least she still knows how to kiss ‘em.

“Shall we go upstairs?” he asks, voice husky.

* * *

 

Boone feels cold inside as they enter the elevator, all three of them at once with Cass in the middle like they are some sort of guard detail. Anonymous shame and degradation is one thing, letting the pale-skinned man use and abuse him and walking away knowing he can leave it behind at any time—but Cass is too rooted to his ‘real’ life, an anchor that reminds him of all the things he can’t abandon even when he tries to lose himself in the sex and the pain.

 _I’m sorry Carla, I love you Carla, I’m sorry I’m such a shitty husband, Carla,_ the litany whispers through his mind, a sour taste in the back of his throat. Cass is still bouncing on her heels, cracking jokes and making it harder for him to lose himself in the unthinking headspace that he needs when she keeps acting like… like it’s a game to her, and not something he _needs_ on some level to keep his sanity.

Cass doesn’t get it. But the man does.

As soon as they walk into the room, he reaches for a thin wooden rod left casually on a table. Gripping it firmly in one hand, he swings it so that it cuts the air with a sharp whistling sound, bending just slightly with its own momentum.

“Watch out there, partner. You might poke someone’s eye out,” Cass says, lips turning up like the devil’s own smile.

Boone shifts uncomfortably, still hungering for the man’s dominance—the way his cold voice caresses Boone’s ear like ripples on a lake, the way his hands can feel so cold yet heated as he caresses the pained heat on his buttocks—but finding it still too difficult with Cass there. To admit this out loud would be to admit defeat, another weakness to a man who enjoys exploiting those weaknesses.

But the man merely chuckles. “No eyes, my dear. Just creating patterns. I fancy myself an artist. But I think you will find artists work best in silence. So if you wish to participate…”

“Fine, I get it. Zipped up,” she mimes, drawing her finger across her lips. She still bounces in place, but Boone finds it much easier to ignore her now, instead focusing on the stranger’s unspoken commands. When he points to Boone’s pants, the sniper obediently strips, kicking his boots to the side and dropping his trousers. Remembering how neat the man had been the last time, he even remembers to fold his clothing carefully as he sets it aside.

When he draws his shirt over his head, he hears Cass’ appreciative whistle. He can’t see her expression through the white cloth, but imagines her waggling her eyebrows, licking her lips, eyeing him like he’s one of the dancers at the Gomorrah…

As long as she’s not talking, he can pretend it’s just another fantasy. Another private thrill in the sanctity of his own head. But when the shirt is finally off all the way and he sees her standing there, the shame makes him want to slip it back on. But to do so would displease the stranger, and while he is dimly aware that bad things are coming for him, and he _deserves_ bad things after Bitter Springs, there is the vague and nameless dread that even more bad things will come if he displeases this man.

So he stands naked in front of them, shivering under the weight of their combined gaze with a butt plug firmly inserted.

* * *

 

Cass can’t help whistling when Boone’s shirt comes off; he looks just as tasty as she always imagined, light and shadows playing across the taut lines and rippling expanse of his abdomen, making her want to just pounce on him and lick her tongue across those, tracing her way down his belly and towards his dick.

But Cole, the insufferable self-proclaimed ‘artist,’ is motioning Boone to a table. The man mutely leans over, forearms braced against the dark wood and sticking his ass out. She can see a hint of the plug’s flared base, poking out from just below his ass cheeks, and finds herself strangely intrigued. She might like a bit of slap and tickle now and then, a little rough trade after the whiskey’s been flowing and maybe she’s made a new friend or two in a bar brawl, but this kind of head-game is out of her experience. The trappings—and Boone’s well-toned ass—are nice though, making her cunt throb and so she idly strokes herself, grazing her palm over the zipper of her pants.

Cole whips the switch in the air again, then lightly touches it to Boone’s buttock, doing little more than grazing the flesh. Then he taps it against the man’s thighs, then up again, angling it as if taking measurements. Finally, with a satisfied nod, he brings his arm back, and then….

_Crack!_

Boone does not even cry out, even though he flinches under the blow. A thin red line, neat and almost decorative against the paleness of his ass, now runs at a slight diagonal on his cheeks.

“How did you enjoy that, Boone?” Cole asks.

Boone’s response is short, with a quiet reverence that Cass has never heard before. “I liked it.”

“Would you like more?” Cole continues, like he’s offering a drink instead of a throbbing line of pain.

“Yes, sir. Please, sir.”

Cass watches in amazement as Cole continues switching Boone, laying each blow of the rod down with careful precision, creating a parallel set of marks that cross the fleshy mounds of his buttocks, grazing down to the tops of his thighs and the backs of Boone’s legs. Boone endures, inhumanly silent even when she sees tears trickling down his cheeks, biting his lip and grunting to prevent a louder outburst. She keeps thinking this can’t possibly be erotic, can’t possibly be hot—but Boone’s dick is hard, pressing up between his legs and pushing insistently against the bottom of the table. And her pussy is wet, even wetter than it had been when she had just been spying through the mirror, her juices almost gushing out as she shifts her weight uncomfortably.

“Would you like to try it?”  Cole asks, raising an eyebrow at her. He stops punishing—she wants to say ‘hurting,’ but even if it’s hurt, the boy _likes_ it, she can’t deny that—Boone, instead running those pale hands over the red marks, pressing his palms to the heated flesh  and causing Boone to moan under his breath.

Much to her surprise, she finds herself saying, “Yes.”

* * *

 

Vulpes passes the switch to Cass, gently placing his hands on her elbows and steering her into position. She grins cheekily over her shoulder, the crinkle in her eyes letting him know that _she_ knows this is a thinly veiled excuse to press his body against hers.

It does not detract at all from the simple pleasure of holding her. In fact, it adds more; foul-mouthed as this profligate wench might be, she is canny enough to be interesting. She would breed excellent soldiers for the Legion if he were to take her for his personal use. But that is a pleasure and a purpose yet to come; for now, he must instruct her in how to best inflict pain.

“There is an art to it,” he murmurs in her ear, a soft strand of her hair tickling against his lips. “Feel the weight of it, understand how it bends when you flick it. Let it cut the air before snapping it against him.”

He shifts his hands to her shoulders, breathing in the scent of her hair—dust and heat, like so much else in this miserable desert, but under it is warmth and a sweet-tart smell, like fruit just shy of full ripeness. It’s raw and wild, faintly bitter against the back of his tongue as he inhales through his mouth, trying to savor her essence. Her thin arms flex with wiry strength under his fingers as she takes an experimental swing with the switch. It takes her a few tries before she is able to mimic the crisp whipping sound he made earlier, her lips curling with satisfaction as she succeeds.

Boone remains silent, bent over the table and trembling just slightly with each flick of the rod as it whistles through the air. Each tremor anticipating a blow that does not land, teeth gritted against the expected pain. But he remains in place, quiet and obedient even as Vulpes passes authority to Cass.

“He is all yours, my dear. If you strike so,” he mimes, lashing an imaginary angle across Boone’s ass, “It will create a most pleasing pattern. Try to keep the lines parallel to one another.”

Cass chuckles deep in her throat, “Like a perfectly-grilled steak. All right. That might work.” Pulling her arm back—and Vulpes’ hands still on her shoulders, his thighs brushing against the back of her while she twists to gain momentum—she lays a single perfect line, the crack echoing through the small room and masking Boone’s sudden gasp of pained pleasure. Vulpes admires her handiwork, the neat red mark overlapping with the ones he had made earlier.

“Huh. You’re right; it does look rather nice,” she admits, tilting her head admiringly at her own handiwork.

“But you’re not done yet,” he reminds her, kissing her ear. And indeed she’s not, starting to swing with a renewed glee as she splashes a crimson line across Boone’s white flesh. The sniper grunts, legs starting to shake as he struggles to stay leaning against the table. Vulpes finds Cass’ wicked delight even more enticing than Boone’s submission, watching her face light up with an almost innocent delight.

Strike after strike fall across Boone’s buttocks, the lines forming white diamonds of unmarked flesh against the grid of each angled blow, the man biting off a half-formed swear as Cass strikes an especially loud smack. With critical eyes, Vulpes notes that she has not quite mastered delivering precise doses of pain, but her enthusiasm is part of the charm, the triumph of new excitement outweighing measured skill. Each of _his_ blows had been carefully calculated to mark without bruising; he suspects that at least a few of Cass’ strikes will leave purpling flesh for the next few days.

He feels absurdly proud.

* * *

 

Cass feels insanely horny, cheeks heated and her nipples hardening under her shirt. Beating up on Boone—something she’s fantasized before, but not in _this_ context—feels like an appetizer though, a warm-up for the main course. No matter how much fun she’s having now, she can’t come just off of this.

So she drops the switch, twisting in Cole’s grasp to kiss him full on the lips. Her tongue scrapes past his teeth, hands twisting in the fine material of his shirt as she growls deep in her throat. “Goddamn, I’m hot. Let’s make ourselves a Boone sandwich.”

Cole just looks at her, raising an eyebrow as if either not catching her meaning or not _wanting_ to catch her meaning.

“Hell, I already tried your dick. I want to sample the other sausage,” she protests, pushing him away with one hand to disengage. “What’s the point of having a threesome if I can’t taste everything?”

His tone is cool, too controlled—she can tell he is judging her. “You are a woman of voracious appetites.”

“And we were both beating a man across his ass with a switch. Your point?” she asks, cocking an eyebrow at him in turn as she kicks off her boots. She strips down her pants and underwear, flinging her panties at Boone’s head. “Hey, soldier-boy! Let’s fuck!”

Boone straightens up, turning slowly. His erection is pointing straight at her, though his face remains averted. “Cass, I don’t know. Not since…”

She knows his story, knows his hesitation—and normally, she’d try to respect that limit, let him revere the memory of his wife. But she thinks it’s a fucked-up sort of hypocrisy for him to say that it was okay to be beaten and humiliated and fuck a stranger but not to have a friendly fuck with a friend who he was perfectly fine just handling his ass, and all that boils out of her as she grits her teeth, glaring.

“Craig Boone, I’m gonna lie down on this bed and you’re going to fuck me good and proper, soldier. Got that?” she finishes with a commanding hiss, feeling her eyes narrow mean as a rattlesnake’s. Maybe because Boone likes being bossed around, maybe some sort of residual habit from taking orders, he shuts up right away. As she lays back on the bed, spreading her legs and gripping her knees so he gets a good look at her wet cunt, letting him move into position and slide in and oh _fuck_ it feels good. He feels just as hot and firm as she’d always thought he would, his cock filling her up, and once he starts moving—guided by her hands on his shoulders, her legs wrapping around him so her feet drum against his tender ass—it feels even better.

Cole watches them, stone-faced and silent. Honestly, it unnerves Cass a bit, so she calls out, “Hey, asshole! This isn’t a show! Come on in!” She shifts downward, cupping her hands over Boone’s buttocks and spreading them invitingly.

Cole pauses only a moment before unzipping his pants. He takes a small jar of some greasy substance, smearing it generously over his cock before pulling the plug from Boone’s ass. Boone gasps against her ear, groaning as it leaves, then gives another gasp as Cole slides himself in. Cole is not gentle, each savage thrust of his cock running through Boone and through Boone’s cock, directly into Cass’ pussy as the force and weight of the two men combine.

Their eyes meet over Boone’s shoulder, and Cass gets the strange feeling that Cole is actually fucking _her_ through Boone, using the other man like a condom to get through to her. Each time he pushes forward, Boone is forced forward, deeper into her. Each time she pushes back, tilting her hips and grinding her clit against Boone’s belly, she feels Cole groan, Boone’s ass shoving against him like an extension of her pussy.

Fuck. She never thought she could screw two guys at once like this.

* * *

 

Vulpes realizes watching Cass fuck Boone—be fucked by Boone, even if it is through him—is both painful and arousing. Cass is beautiful, of course, and watching her enjoy herself is wonderful. But there is an ember of jealousy smoldering, possessive rage souring the pleasure of watching her. So he fucks Boone harder and more roughly, knowing the man can take the rough force and inflamed heat of flesh against his bruising flesh, knowing that the faster he goes, the louder Cass moans, until she is screaming, claws raking across Boone’s shoulders and _that_ is what finally sends him over the edge, his groan mingling with her wild cry of joy, his come spilling into Boone unlike how she refused to let him come inside her…

“Oh _fuck_ that was hot,” she groans. “Boone, you didn’t get to blow yet, so let’s shift…”

Personally, Vulpes doesn’t care if the quiet man doesn’t get his orgasm—fairness had never been part of the game to him—but Cass seems determine to get him off, squirming under him—under them—and forcing Vulpes to pull himself free. So Boone pulls himself out as well, kneeling in front of Cass as she starts pumping her hand up and down his shaft, bringing Boone to climax with a grunt. His milky sperm spatters over the bed, Cass laughing as she twists herself to the side to keep from getting sprayed.

“Damn, that was fun! We should all do this again…” she chuckles, already rolling to her feet and hopping into her panties.

Boone is still breathing heavily, eyes glassy and sweat beading under his close-cropped haircut. Vulpes recognizes Boone as still coming out of whatever submissive head-space he occupies during these games, and that Cass is inadvertently ruining the moment. So he zips himself up as he walks over to her, silencing her with a lingering kiss. But she pushes him away, laughing again.

“Hell, that was fun, but let’s not get too sappy now, alright? It was just sex. You okay there, Boone?”

The man shakes his head, more as if emerging from a daze than an actual response. Voice muddled, he responds, “I’m… I’m just fine. Just fine.”

With far too much affection to Vulpes’ taste, Cass twines herself about Boone’s bare shoulders, rubbing a freckled hand over the red marks on his ass. “Just fine? How about fucking _amazing_ , ‘cause that was amazing fucking.”

By mighty Caesar, inviting Cass seems less like much less of a good idea than he originally thought. At first he had thought it would simply add an extra layer of spice to Boone’s humiliation, but it has completely changed the dynamic of this relationship. Struggling to regain control, he curtly says, “Boone, get dressed.”

The man obeys silently, and Vulpes briefly whispers the time and place to Cass. He will let the woman decide if she wants to bring Boone… or come along on her own.

He is hoping—even as he recognizes that hope is a sign he is forming a most unprofessional attachment to the profligate—that she will chose to come alone.


	5. 'It's Not Right'

When Cass wakes up the next day, limbs pleasantly loose and sticky warmth between her legs as a reminder of the incredible night, she instinctively rolls to the side, groping for Boone.

The man’s gone. Figures.

With a yawn, she rolls to her feet, noting that she fell asleep with all her clothes on. Shoving her feet into her boots, she ambles out to see if Boone’s still around. There is a sound of dishes rattling from the kitchen, so she decides to check there first.

Instead of a tall stoic sniper, she finds a short chatty pugilist. “Hey, Cass!” Veronica exclaims through a mouthful of Sugar Bombs. She hastily covers her mouth with one hand, swallowing. “I’m so glad you’re up! I got a good look at the man from last night…”

Oh yeah. That. Cass pulls a bottle of sarsaparilla from the fridge, popping the cap in one easy movement against her belt buckle. She almost plumb forgot. To hide her memory lapse, she takes a long swig. “Oh yeah? Anyone you recognize?”

“Vulpes Inculta.”

Cass chokes, a fine mist of aerosolized soda flying from her lips. “You gotta be shitting me!”

“Wish I were, Cass. You…” The brunette shifts uneasily, her mouth twisting about the words like they are week-old radroach carcasses. “You didn’t fuck him, did you?”

“Me? Fuck one of Caesar’s boys?” Cass exclaims, wiping her mouth with one sleeve. She chokes again, pounding her fist against her chest. “No. I didn’t fuck him last night,” she clarifies, opting for the half-truth. For fuck’s sake, did Boone know how to pick ‘em or what?

Goddammit. Cass knows she has made her share of questionable decisions—pouring enough whiskey in her meant that she didn’t much care who or what she went to bed with, for one thing—but for Boone…

This could fucking rip him apart. And he’s already more chipped and broken about the edges than a cheap plate.

She might like fucking with the boy and treating him like a slab of beef, but there are still _limits_. A fierce, burning feeling flares up deep inside, her prickles coming out on Boone’s behalf.

Goddammit.

“Careful with him, Cass,” Veronica cautions. “This is the man that destroyed Nipton, remember. He’s probably got some longer game in mind if he’s cozying up to you and Boone.” Her eyebrows are drawn together, lips curled down in a worried frown that Cass tries to ignore.

“Yeah, no kidding,” the redhead says tersely, rubbing her forehead. “Reckon the Courier’d be upset if we kill him?”

Veronica forces a smile to her lips, clanking her spoon against the side of her bowl with a nervous tic. “Upset? No. Mind? Maybe. Only because—“

“—I did it ‘stead of letting the Courier hog all the glory,” Cass finishes, her shoulders slumping as she exhales. “Good to know. Just let me go talk to Boone, and we’ll get it all sorted.”

It is with both relief and trepidation that she finds him downstairs on the first floor, an unlit cigarette dangling from his fingers as he stares moodily at the floor. He does not look up when she approaches, only twisting away when she tries to take his hand.

“Hey, Boone. We need to talk,” she starts, hugging her arms about herself. There is no way to sugar-coat this, so she just wants to jump in, spit the words out and let the chips fall. Whatever happens, at least they can deal with that Legionary asshole together.

But Boone cuts her off with a curt nod. “Yes. We do. Last night was a mistake.” She feels a brief fizzle of joy, ready to call it quits with Vulpes ‘Cole’ Inculta and just keep banging Boone every night, but his next sentence causes the words to die on her tongue. “We shouldn’t be screwing each other. It’s… it’s not right.”

“But fucking a guy whose name you don’t even know, somehow that’s right?” Cass asks slowly, trying not to poison the words with the sudden bitterness bubbling through her.

“I got bad things coming. It’s no worse than that.” His eyes are hidden behind those damn shades, of course, but he sounds genuine. Not even putting on some kind of badass front, but just… deflated. Like last night wasn’t just an excuse to get his dick hard and fuck and be fucked, but some sort of self-inflicted punishment.

She never knew how deep the crazy went.

Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she struggles to maintain her composure. Boone’s a friend, and friends deserve better than an angry rant about their poor life choices. They deserve a chance to be heard, to be talked _to_ before the spurs come out. “Boone, take off those shades. I want to look in your eyes and tell you that man’s bad news. Writ all over him, he tracks it behind him like brahmin shit over Mama’s clean floors. I know you… you like the kinky stuff,” she adds hesitantly, still not quite sure what goes on in Boone’s head when he’s getting his rocks off. Even if she was surprised to like it as much as she did, it’s not a burning need the way it seems for him. “Hell, I like me some rough stuff too, but you don’t have to be treated _badly_ in order to be treated _bad_ ,” she emphasizes, trying to make the distinction crystal-clear and sharp as a razor.

He takes off his glasses, hooking the earpiece into the neck of his plain white shirt. His eyes are dark, searching Cass’ face for something he fails to find judging by his long sigh.

“It’s not like that, Cass,” he mutters.

 “Then you tell me! Tell me what it’s about!” She hates herself for how her voice rises, high-pitched and strident, more like a cheap hooker trawling for johns than the caravan boss she knows she is. But she persists, jabbing a finger square in the center of his chest. “Tell me why you got to get your hurt on with him, but you can’t with me!” Sounding like a jealous girlfriend is hardly better, but Cass rallies, trying to cling to her shredded dignity as she crowds in to Boone, too close and personal, her lips scant inches from his as she glares straight into his eyes.

“Because you aren’t Carla.”

The words stop her cold, forcing her to breathe in and out through her flared nostrils as she tries to blink away the salt in her eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Boone,” she finally groans, pained words twisting through her like a knife in the gut. “Neither is he.”

“He’s not trying to be. You make it too personal.”  His face is just as dead without the sunglasses as with, infuriating Cass beyond all reason. It would be one thing if there were some sort of regret or audible melancholy—but there’s not, the lack of emotion even more painful than all the quietly restrained grief in the world. A small part of her knows, objectively, that he still _is_ grieving on some level, and the words are probably all choked up inside—but he’s not sharing that with her. The walls are up, and he’s locked her out without a key.

She’s always been the type to break the door down anyway.

Cass narrows her eyes, leaning in so close she can smell the faint whiff of his shaving cream. “You think I’m too fucking personal? That’s the problem? You like cool disdain better’n hot rage?” She can practically taste the coffee he drank this morning, the bitter brew still cloying about his lips. “You are fucking _unbelievable_.”

She means to leave it at that, let the asshole go—if he can’t sort out his own shit, he might as well keep getting fucked by Vulpes—but as she draws back, feeling her lips twist with disgust and the disappointment seething inside her, he pushes forward. His mouth finds hers, hard and needy, his teeth biting her lip, his tongue suckling the last droplets of sarsaparilla from the corners of her mouth…

 _Oh. So that’s how it’s going to be_ , she thinks dully, not even surprised anymore by his abrupt neediness. _I play cool, you blow hot. I try to warm you up, you give me the cold shoulder._ Bleakly, she realizes this game is just as fucked up as all the shit Vulpes and Boone have been up to, but it doesn’t stop her body from responding. Her hips buck against his thigh and her hand twists against his shirt, forming a fist with the material held taut as she keeps him close.

It’s the first floor, so they really _should_ be watching out for foot-traffic, but Cass is horny and angry in equal parts, the frustrated concoction clouding her thoughts. Far better to nuzzle against Boone’s neck, lick the slight alkaline tang of his collar, and snake one leg over his hip as she starts dry-humping him against the wall. As for Boone… if he has a spare brain cell to spare, it would be a hell of a surprise. Not that she ever seems to know what’s going on in the boy’s head anyway.

There is nothing sweet or gentle about it, just two bodies grinding together, heat and dry friction as she frantically cups his balls through the too-thick material of his pants, squeezing just a little too hard—and she knows it’s too hard because she is being rough on purpose, spite making up for her lack of true sadism—and he gasps, but then the thick muscle of his thigh is rubbing at the junction of her legs and it’s just a bit too hard, a bit too fast, the direct pressure almost painful as he jabs a thumb to her pussy, prodding at her clit through the worn denim. She responds by biting his neck, really _biting_ and sinking her teeth in, listening to his groan go from pleasure to pained hiss as he recoils.

She starts snaking his pants down, unbuttoning his fly and shoving the clothing down his hips so it puddles on the floor about his ankles. His erection presses against her belly, seeking and failing to find her entrance until she gives a frustrated growl, shoving her own pants down, and then his dick is shoving against her, rubbing raw against her outer lips before she parts her thighs, him still leaning against the wall as she tries to mount him…

..and somewhere in that haze of lust and anger and misdirected rage, there is a part of her that whispers, _You aren’t drunk enough for this. This is a huge fucking mistake, and it’s only going to end in pain. For both of you. For all of you. Stop while you’re fucking ahead…_ The insistent voice doesn’t quiet even when she nips his ear, nor does it stop as she twists her leg up higher, trying to angle herself so they can fuck while standing instead of taking to the carpet.  It’s killing her mood, sad clarity filtering through like morning sunlight through a half-empty bottle.

“We… for fuck’s sake, Boone, we gotta stop,” she groans, pushing herself away from him with pained effort. Her cunt throbs sore, a dull ache settling in her loins like blue balls. “You were right. Last night was just… a mistake. It’s not right.”

He looks just as devastated as she felt earlier, the words now flipped about. He slumps mutely, burdened by the weight of guilt and shame. “…you’re right,” he mutters, pulling his pants up again. His hard-on is already wilting, and even though she suspects he might trot this one out for the spank-bank later… in this moment, at this time, there are some sorts of guilt that can’t be eroticized.

She pulls up her panties, the material feeling damp and filthy against her skin. “I’m sorry.” It feels like a futile effort, a single grain of sand trying to hold back a flood, but she can’t just leave this mess without some sort of apology. He just shrugs in response, face as stony as ever, and puts his shades back on. With a curt nod, he walks out of the Lucky 38.

Fuck.

She can’t tell him the truth about Vulpes. So she knows what she has to do.


	6. Throw Down

Vulpes is back at Gomorrah, sipping another cola and whiskey as he waits for the Courier’s companions. Or possibly simply one companion; he harbors hopes that Cass will elect to come on her own. Whether it is due to budding affection or selfish hedonism—hoping to attain his undivided attention, like their first time together—he does not care. While Boone intrigues him, with the contrast between his towering physique and his almost womanly desire for submission, most of his desire in that realm stems from his calculated need for control. Cass is raw sensation and wantonness made flesh; he aches for her without needing to subdue her.

As if the thought summoned her, he spots the wiry woman enter the casino, moving through the crowd with deft grace. Without waiting for an invitation, she snatches his half-finished drink and drains it in one long swallow.

“Will it just be the two of us tonight?” he asks, raising an eyebrow as he appraisingly scans the crowd for a distinct lack of man-shaped refrigerator.

She frowns, wiping her lips against the back of her sleeve. “That’s the plan.” Her heels drum against the floor, her body tense as a rattlesnake about to strike. “Look, let’s just go upstairs. No games or mindfuckery, ‘cause I know what I want tonight.”

Unlike the carnal whirlwind of before, she is chill and withdrawn, her body unresponsive when he cups her hands under his, brushing his lips over the tender pulse of her wrist. “My dear, you seem troubled.”

There is just a hint of a smirk on her face, her innate insolence bubbling to the surface from beneath this moody veneer. “Yeah. Troubled is one word for it.” She leans in to kiss him, sweet cola and harsh whiskey mingling on their breaths. He kisses gently, probingly, savoring the curve of her lip and how her cheek feels nuzzled against the tip of his nose. There is wonder and pleasure here, the simple delights that come from a willing woman rather than a slave.

But all too soon she breaks away, demons dancing in her eyes as she murmurs, “C’mon, Cole. Let’s go to the throw down.”

* * *

 

Cass hates him. She can’t deny that. She hates him, she wants to hurt him, she wants to rearrange his features—and she has the brass knuckles in her pocket, slim and flat against her leg, easily missed by the security detail that tries to keep the patrons unarmed and incapable of killing each other.

But when they kiss… damn if it doesn’t feel good. Just lips on lips and mingling breath.

That doesn’t make it right.

So she lets him lead the way, watches the way the suit fits his body, clean lines emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders. The way his slacks hang, hinting at legs and buttocks without revealing their firm shape. He’s a fucking work of art, in all the ways both good and bad.

Challenging him right before throwing down seems damnably stupid, giving him advance warning before she cleans his clock—but Cass has always been a straight shooter. And fucking him first _before_ punching his lights out is just too fucked up for her.

Boone might bend for this man, bend to the point of breaking, but Cass just doesn’t have that in her. She can’t let Vulpes change her that way, one last victory in whatever hellish game goes on inside the minds of men who play lotteries with the lives of entire communities.

She can’t let him change her. She refuses to change for the sake of ivory hands and a warm mouth against her own.

So once in the room, she looks him square in the eye, gritting her teeth as she realizes he is already removing the jacket, unbuttoning the shirt, all pale flesh and wicked desire coiling through her belly.

“Vulpes In-Cole-ta?” she asks, her hand going to her pocket for the brass knuckles. Her voice sounds stiff and unnatural, words creaking like a door slammed shut.

He goes still. Too still, his form looking as if carved of chill marble and ice, only his eyes still moving. Tiny movements, barely more than twitching about the periphery as his gaze remains locked with hers, taking in the sweep of her eyelashes and the line of her brow. “So you identified me, miss Rose of Sharon Cassidy.” His lips are stiff too, and she half-expects his skin to crack under this unnatural pressure.

“You know this whole thing between us—you, Boone, me—it’s fucked up beyond all imagination, right?” There’s no answer he can give that will possibly satisfy her, but she has to—on some level—understand that he _knows_ this is wrong. That this is malice willing, not inadvertent. Because otherwise there’s no way she can piece this all back together in any sort of way that makes sense.

“I never promised Boone it would be anything other than shame, guilt, and pain,” he offers gently, the words whispering like dead leaves through her empty chest. His eyes are steady, unashamed and unrepentant. Snake eyes; it was always in his nature. “I made no promises to you either, Cass. But we can always start afresh.” There is a gentleness in his tone that only hollows her out further, thinking back to dark smoke blotting the sky and the crosses on the road to Nipton.

Cass can’t carry him to salvation, and redemption doesn’t come just because you fuck someone senseless.

She snorts, feeling the tension build between her shoulders. She’d like to drink, to fight, to cuss and fuck it all out, get rid of all this mess with some strong, cleansing sort of fun. “Well, congratulations. You kept that promise.” She can’t drink with Co- with Vulpes, and she doesn’t really feel like fucking him, so that just leaves cussing and fighting. She can’t even think about his last statement, and all the ways she’d have to twist herself into a pretzel to even remotely accept that implied affection. “You are a fucking piece of work. You know the Courier wants you dead, right? I mean, you _asshole_ ,” she exclaims, fury suddenly burning in her like a torch as she thrusts her finger under Vulpes’ chin, aiming like it’s a gun. “You are fucking _Legion_. You rape, you enslave, you fuck up everything you touch. And even Nipton and Searchlight… it’s one thing when you’re in a fuckin’ war, but this is just… it’s all kinds of screwed in the head. You twisted that boy all wrong upstairs.”

“He was twisted long before I ever approached him.”

And she knows it’s true, but hearing him it as if Boone’s torment was nothing more than a project, or maybe some sort of tool to be used, turned against him… it makes the rage flare again as she spits, “Well, fuck you then!”

“Would you like to? One last go-around, before this all ends in pain?”

She can’t believe he’s even asking that question.

Her hand closes about the brass knuckles as she pulls them out.

One way or another, this will only end in pain.

* * *

 

When the Courier finally returns from the Divide, carrying upgrades for ED-E and the weight of the world on weary shoulders, it is to find the Lucky 38 uncharacteristically quiet. Cass and Boone aren’t speaking to one other, and Veronica hovers about Cass like an overanxious nurse. Arcade is similarly protective of Boone, while Rex whines deep in his throat. Even Raul and Lily have picked up the sour atmosphere, and the mechanic simply dips his head with a short, “Welcome back, boss.”

“Just what the hell happened while I was out?” the Courier asks, blinking and uncertain.

“Nothing much,” Cass says quickly around a split lip, a purpling bruise half-hidden under her shirt’s high collar like a teenager hiding their first hickey. Her knuckles are covered with half-healed scars and scrapes, one of them a perfectly shaped bite mark.

At the same time Boone mutters “Pain,” his voice raw and bleeding. His skin is pink and shiny, fresh as if the first layer has been peeled away by a coarse-bristled brush covered in soap. The Courier abruptly notices that the shades are new—an almost exact duplicate of Boone’s previous pair, but missing a small scratch by the bridge of the nose.

The Courier never learns more about what happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Link to extended author note drabbles.](http://cchipbiscuit.livejournal.com/1624.html)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Caesar's "Headaches"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1768678) by [Trystero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trystero/pseuds/Trystero)




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